Perth
by cherrylipped
Summary: 16-year-old Matthew Williams is looking for an escape from his suburban town after losing his older brother and best friend, Alfred, and meets Gilbert Beilschmidt, a sarcastic 19-year-old, during his first of many midnight trips. OR, Canada loses his brother (so Prussia, being himself, thinks he can help). Human AU. Rated T for now.
1. Chapter 1

I think I've always been sick of my town. I don't know what it is, but something about it pisses me off. It's not the people, not the stink of dogs that haven't been bathed in years clinging to to the outdoor air. It's not the shit hospitality they serve here, and it's not the lack of entertainment here, either. I think I just expect too much.

I turn onto my side, staring into the darkness. When I glance at my clock, it reads exactly one in the morning. I begin to think to myself about the coincidence, before my thoughts begin to trail. I used to always stay up this late, and even pulled frequent all-nighters in middle school on week nights. I don't know what's changed between eighth grade and now (only two years have passed), but most of the time, I can't even stay up past nine-thirty.

Alfred seemed to always hate sleeping, which was pretty ironic since I loved taking naps and sleeping. I slept in whenever I could. He was always wide awake. I always found his personality was pretty fucking annoying when I was half asleep and he kept talking.

Thinking about him sort of hurts. I don't know how to feel about that. It's only been a few days, but it seems too - out there? I don't know how to put it. It doesn't feel like a joke, but it doesn't feel real either. If I think about it for too long, I feel like I might explode. But what the fuck am I supposed to do? I don't know. I've never known anybody to die before.

Death by a trigger. It wasn't suicide, because he just wasn't suicidal. Even then, I would've known. He used to tell me everything. He was always in a good mood, and it was annoying when I just woke up or if I was in an awful mood (which I always was, even now). I don't know what the motives are for people to kill other people, but I guess everyone's got their reasons. Their reasons just aren't enough to make it justified. Killing, I mean.

I sit up in my bed, pulling at my hair. I can feel myself breathing, and everything is in focus, which makes me very uncomfortable. I feel trapped in my room - the room I used to share with Al. Another thing I don't know how to feel about. I'm always looking in that kid's hiding spots and waiting for him to appear. Even now, I find myself staring at the empty twin-sized bed, its dullish gray sheets undone (I never mustered up the courage to clean his side of the room). I don't know what to do when after five minutes, he doesn't magically appear.

I sigh, closing my eyes as I sit there, the sheets to my own bed falling off of the mattress. I feel shitty. I've always felt like this, but tonight I feel shitty beyond the extent I normally feel - so a lot. I get up, trying to pace around. I don't want to make too much noise, since my mom and dad's room is directly next ours (mine), and I don't feel like getting lectured by either of them in their half-awake state for being up late. I'm not even sure if they're asleep themselves. I sort of doubt it, because while Al was my brother, he was their son. I don't know if that makes it more emotional for them than for me, but either way, I doubt they're getting any more sleep than I am.

I think about crying. I've never really cried about anything since I was probably twelve, and even then, I don't really remember what it was over. I mostly feel empty. If I cried, I don't think it would be proper. I've always been emotionally detached. When you feel guilt, you're supposed to feel something pinch your chest. In fact, it's completely normal to feel it. I never feel it, really. I just sort of understand that that's probably how I'm supposed to feel. The last time I _truly_ felt guilt, I'd lied to my parents about staying at a friend's house for a few days, when I was really going to a music festival. That had been last year, when I was fifteen. They never really found out, they just knew I wasn't at my friend's house. Since then, I haven't felt any proper emotions.

Mostly, and especially right now, I just feel numb. My wrists and hands have a stinging sensation coursing through them, and when I clench my fists, it feels worse. I really just want to make it stop. I end up sitting at the bottom of my bed, looking around my room. Both Alfred and I shared a room. And really, when I think about it, no one really called him Alfred. He was always either Al or Alfie, though the last nickname was reserved for his girlfriends, or me when I was making fun of him. He was older than me by two years, though, whenever we made friends, our friendships with these people began with them figuring we were twins, because we looked so alike. When I first met my best friend, Juan, it was because he tried beating me up because he thought I was Al (he never liked Communism - I never cared about government matters).

Of course, like the big brother that dickwad was (I say that fondly, really), he had tried to step in and save me. Which was useless, of course, because I really didn't need any help. I wasn't tall, but I was just as tall as my older brother, and while Al was built with muscle, I wasn't weak. When the tan, buff guy who was trying to start a fight, saw Alfred, he looked back at me with a confused expression. I guess standing side by side made him realize that we looked alike, but we weren't the same person. Al always found this funny, but never really quit ranting to my friend about Communism. It was pretty annoying when all Juan and I were trying to do was watch a hockey game or do our homework.

Even through all that, Al was never a bad guy. Highly suspicious, annoying, and headstrong, he was, but he never, ever went out of his way to hurt others. Most people liked him, too, when they got past the annoying part of him. He was serious when he wanted to be, listened to a lot of people and helped them whenever he could. He was funny, too - only, he never made any dirty jokes. He was pretty corny when it came to his jokes. I think that's what makes me pissed about it all. He didn't deserve to die, no matter how you try to put it. He was a good person, a good brother, a good son. He was better than good, too. And then, it wasn't just him dying - it was the fact that he was murdered. They hadn't even caught the fucking murderer. That's what makes me pissed about it all.

And really, there is a part of me that's sad - though, you really could pass it off as more of a "disappointed" feeling. I can't tell him anything anymore. I can't tell him what my day was like, even if he didn't care or was too busy to pretend like he was listening. I couldn't ask him questions over homework, and I couldn't make fun of him for whatever he had done to embarrass himself that day. We wouldn't be able to trade comics and suggest music to each other and recommend books. I wouldn't get my true best friend back. We were always close like that. We never felt like brothers - we really just felt like best friends who lived together. I recognize the fact that, once we were old, like 84-years-old, we would probably die. I think I just never expected it to happen for a very long time.

Thinking about it makes me sick. When I glance at the clock again, only ten minutes have passed. But even though it's one in the morning, I don't feel sleepy in the slightest. I sort of laugh at the joke I make inside my head - even while he's _dead_, that damn bastard is keeping me awake. I rub my eyes, keeping my hands over my face as I shut my eyes. Thinking about it makes my body ache. I can't take it anymore. So I get up from the end of my bed and walk over to my closet, opening it quietly to grab a pair of jeans and my shoes. Sliding on the rough material of my Levi's, I quickly zip them up, and then put on my sneakers. They're worn out, though I don't complain about it since they're comfortable. Lastly, I pull on a simple, gray sweatshirt. It's always cold as hell in October.

I think about getting out through my window, like a rebel from a book. But I'm not so cool, so I just walk out of my room, trying not to make noise. I do everything slowly, my face heating up at the silence as my sneakers make a soft _thud_ against the carpeted-floor. Once outside the room, I shut the door after myself, making sure I've turned the knob all the way so that when I close it, I let it go slowly and it doesn't make any noise. The door to my room automatically leads to the staircase leading downstairs, and I continue down. We've only lived here for so long, and our house was made in '97, so the staircases aren't so worn yet. That gives me an advantage - they make no sound underneath my feet.

I quickly make my way out through the front door, shutting it behind me. I sort of just stand on our porch for a few seconds. The air is breezy and cool, and it causes me to shiver. It reminds me of when me and Al were younger, and how our parents would invite family friends over for a bonfire. After that, we'd camp in our backyard. We - us brothers, I mean, since my mom hated being outside after a long while - would normally fall asleep to a movie playing on my dad's laptop that he normally used for work. When we woke up, it'd always be gone, and when we got inside, he'd be on it, sitting at the kitchen table, typing away as he drank his, more than likely, second cup of coffee. He wasn't a workaholic, and he still isn't, since he's always given himself a break, but he was never caught dead _not_ working on Sundays.

I finally make it off my porch and into the dim light of streetlights in the night. I don't know why, but I seem to keep catching myself in memories. Does that always happen when someone dies? I'm not sure, but it isn't very pleasant. I know I won't see Al again. That means that we won't be able to have any more memories together. I don't know if that's cliche of me to think, but really, it sucks to know that. The last pictures we formally took of Al were his senior pictures. He looked pretty funny, in my opinion, wearing slacks and a white button-up, along with shiny black loafers. Last time I saw him like that had been when our Aunt Sophie was getting married, and he was in middle school at that time.

As I walk down the hill and out of our neighborhood, I try to stop thinking. Which is a feat, really, for a guy like me. I'm always thinking about something, and I guess that's what's always made me sort of vulnerable. I don't know if that makes sense. I guess it just isn't very hard to make me blindsided. I wear my heart on my sleeve, and so it's hard for me to lie about basically anything. I guess that's how my parents knew I wasn't at my friend's house last year.

Anyway, since I'm always thinking, it's hard for me to stop thinking about Al. I don't know how to push him away from my thoughts. He died, and even while I know that, I can't stop thinking about him. I think to myself, maybe he's not dead. You know? Maybe the doctors didn't try hard enough. From the looks of it, they didn't try at all. I was at Juan's house while when it happened. He - Alfred, I mean, was at a party. I'm pretty sure it was Arthur's. When he left, he had supposedly been gunned down by a stranger while walking home. Said stranger got away, and a neighbor heard him yelling out of pain. The neighbor was a middle aged woman with her hair dyed blond - my mom had told me, as a mere statement, and even with a dazed expression, that her roots were showing, and that's how she knew - and smile lines. She held onto the openings of her cardigan tightly, her lips pursed together out of seriousness, and said it was a traumatic experience for, most likely, the both of them.

When we talked to one of the few officers at the hospital, he told us his alcohol level was two times higher than the legal limit. I saw this as unnecessary information - how drunk he was had nothing to do with the fact that he was killed. It almost seemed as though the man was trying to blame him - if Al hadn't been drunk, maybe he would've fought back. Then it wouldn't have happened. But I didn't see it that way, and my parents didn't seem to appreciate this, either. We couldn't waste our time on "what if's." Alfred was attacked, and that was the problem at hand.

While I sat down on the seats beside Al's bed, I couldn't help but stare. I felt anxious, and I couldn't help but think he was dead. And I don't think I wished for it exactly, but I did figure it was to come. I knew he was going to die. And thinking over it now, I don't think I should've thought that way. Because now that he's gone, I feel like it's my fault for happening. If I hadn't thought that way, maybe it wouldn't have happened. I'm a pessimist like that. Though, it's probably another "what if" that I shouldn't waste my time on.

I find myself walking towards the gas station that appears right at the end of the neighborhood. I stick my hands in the back pockets of my jeans, looking both ways of the street. I wait until the cars stop - there are hardly any since it's so late -, walking across the street to get to my stop I pass a few cars in the lot, before opening the door to the convenience store. When I enter, an electronic chime goes off. I blush a little, letting the door shut behind me as I glance at the guy behind the counter. He doesn't say anything, hardly looks up from his phone, and so I venture off through the crowded aisles filled with candy and potato chips.

I look through each aisle thoroughly. I notice that they have a few trinkets as souvenirs. I pick up shot glasses with the nearby college football name scribbled across it, huffing slightly. Football is pretty big around here. I remember Al getting real hyped up about it all year round. When it was off-season, he was talking about how he couldn't wait till the season started. And then when football season came around, he wouldn't stop talking about it. Since I was born in Canada, I like to take interest in the country I was born in (I find hockey _way_ better). Long story short, my mom is Canadian, and my father isn't. While my mom - her name is Lucy - was in her final month of pregnancy with me, she decided to take a last minute trip to visit her parents. My dad - his name is Dan - went with her, and they left Al with his own parents. They had me in Quebec City.

I glance at the postcards, looking over all of them. They're pretty lousy to be honest. Our city isn't that great. There's really nothing special about it. It's more suburban, and so there's no sightseeing to be done here. The postcard has a bridge all lit up as the picture - it's the bridge we have to drive across to get to the next state over. Making it seem all pretty makes me feel like they're trying too hard. Maybe that's just me being all prissy, but I really don't understand what's so great about this city. I end up going back to the front of the store empty-handed. Instead, I glance behind the guy at the counter and eye the case.

I have a hard time trying to get his attention. I don't like to think I'm shy, but I don't like talking to people I don't know. I don't speak up, and so I try to cough instead. He doesn't look up from his phone. I try to move about. He still doesn't look up. I end up having to smack my hand against the counter. This time, he looks up. His expression looks like he's offended. At this, I feel sort of sorry. I blush deeply - I can feel it - and clear my throat.

"Um. You sell cigarettes here?" The guy behind the counter looks plain. He's got brown hair and brown eyes and fair skin. He raises an eyebrow.

"I don't know. Do we?" That makes my veins flare with slight annoyance. I hate that fucking question. It gets me flustered every time.

"Uh - I'm guessing so, yes?" I try, licking my lips. The guy puts away his phone in his back pocket.

"We do," he replied, pausing afterward. "Do you even smoke, man?" I nod a little. I have before, when I get too nervous over something. Al always had a pack on him - I was always too anxious to ever notice that I should probably question him on why, and more importantly_ how_, he got his hands on one. "That's funny. You don't look the type." At this, I shrug, a bit nervously.

"Sorry," I say, since I can't find anything else to say. He grins, a bit deviously, and he shrugs.

"Why say sorry?" I shrug again. I don't like how this is going, and I don't like his questioning. I want to get over this quickly, but I suppose that's not how it's going to work tonight.

"Can I have a pack of Marlboro, please?" I bite my bottom lip.

"You 18?" I nod as I glance outside. I can't lie to his face, so I just make sure I'm not staring back at him. "Are you sure? You look like a 13-year-old," he comments, and at this, I feel slightly intimidated, and I almost want to cry. I'm not liking this guy much. I don't know if he takes pity on my expression, or simply feels the need to, because after, he says, "You don't look 13, man. But I don't think you're _18_, either."

"I'm sorry." Instead of answering, he turns behind the counter, opening the case before grabbing the pack of cigs.

"Here," he sighs, glancing up at me as he passes the cigarettes across the counter. "I'll give you some, since you look like you need it. But I don't think you should keep doing it. Like, smoking. Since you're young and all." I feel sort of relieved, grabbing the pack.

"Thanks. How much?"

"Five dollars, fifty three centers." I dig out my wallet, taking out a five and one dollar bill. He takes it, handing me a few coins back. I put them in my back pocket. "Thanks for coming by. Have a nice night."

I walk out of the store, sighing deeply as I open the pack. As I pull out a smoke from the box, I realize something.

I don't have a fucking lighter on me.

I don't feel like going back inside, but if I want my life to be 3,000 times easier, I have to. So I do. I'm thinking my face is probably redder than the time I got sunburned when I was 13 (it was awful) and I go through the aisles before picking out a plain green lighter. Going back to the front, I place it on the counter.

"I'm sorry," I say, before the asshole can comment, and he lets out a laugh.

"Is that all you know how to say?" he asks, scanning it before giving me the price. I pay him, taking the lighter in my hand. After a moment of loitering, he says, "Hey." I look up. "Are you okay?" I'm sort of taken back by the question, before nodding after finally composing myself a few seconds later.

"Oh. Yeah, sorry." I take the lighter, and smile hesitantly. "Thanks again." I walk out of the store in a hurry, walking away from the small building in a quick pace. I get back out the cigarette, continuing my walk down the street. Taking a drag, I feel a wave of relief wash over me. Not that I feel _completely_ better, but I do feel lighter. I didn't know how much I needed a cigarette now that I have one lit. I pass by a few more buildings, mostly just neighborhood markets, before finally finding myself beside a car repair shop. I don't know what made me stop here, but I do. By then, the cigarette in my hand is half gone.

Dan, my dad, knows the owner of the shop - whose name I can't remember at the moment. They've known each other since college, and met up again after five years, when my parents finally came to this city, which is where his friend grew up. I'm thinking maybe I can have a chat with him. I haven't talked to him in a few years, given the fact that I don't even remember his name, but I always liked striking up a conversation. He knew I didn't like being treated by a kid, so it was easier to talk to him. He likes hockey, too, so I can probably talk about it with him again. I stomp out the cigarette.

The garage door is open, and I can hear metal against metal and a few curses. This isn't very unusual, though I figure it's kind of funny since it's probably nearing two in the morning. I'm hoping I have the right guy, though. I peer around, looking at the car that's parked. It's a red sedan. I'm no good with cars, so I can't tell what brand it is or anything. Underneath it, legs are sticking out, and so I can tell that someone's working on it. I try to clear my throat, but, as always, it's passed of as a noise of the night.

"_Scheiße_." I sort of stand there, not knowing what to do. I begin to feel the need to walk out of the building and keep my short visit to myself, before the guy from underneath the car rolls out and I stop out of surprise. So the guy isn't the same guy that my dad knows - it's sort of better.

This is because said guy is younger, fitter, and - I hate to admit this - _much_ more attractive than what I had anticipated. This isn't a thought that surprises me more than his sudden movements. I've sort of always been attracted to the male species. (Before, it had been a bit sickening. Everyone else seemed to be fine, while I struggled with the fact that I liked staring at abs over boobs. I got over it after a while.)

Anyway, after the guy rolls out, he immediately notices me. We're both silent for a minute. I can't help the feeling of embarrassment that makes itself present on my reddened cheeks. This feeling seems to be showing up at all the wrong moments. But said guy - he's got pale blond hair, pale skin… pale everything, really - isn't as surprised as I am, and sits up. He looks at me expectantly.

"Can I help you?" I shrug, trying to come up with a good response, but nothing comes to me except the truth. I don't pay much mind to his accent.

"I was sort of looking for the owner," I admitted, running a hand through my own blond hair - it's much darker compared to his.

"He's not here. We closed up a long time ago, man," he replies, glancing over at me as he stands, going over to put a wrench away in a toolbox. I nod, wringing my hands together.

"I know. It's just. He's a family friend, so…" I trail off, suddenly feeling stupid. It's nearly two in the morning now. He has family, too. He wouldn't be here.

"That's fine," the pale guy says, looking over. "Is that all?" I think about it for a long time, before deciding to speak up.

"Why are you here so late? I mean, if I can ask that." He seems to be making a decision, before nodding with a slight smile.

"I'm trying to fix up this fuckin' car here," he replies, glancing at the red vehicle, "before tomorrow. It's giving me a hard time, though."

"Oh. I'm sorry. I should probably leave then."

"Eh, you don't have to," he says, and I finally take note of his German accent. More like, I'm assuming it's German. I'm not good at deciphering those kinds of things. "It's mostly just this damn thing. It's actually great that you showed up here. I should probably just save this for tomorrow. There's really no use."

"Well. I'm sorry if I, you know, distracted you." The guy laughs, shaking his head.

"I just said it was all right, _Birdie_," he grinned. I make sure not to hide my surprise (he's hot and he's flirting with me, something I can't really handle at the same time). He wiped his oily hands on a white rag, making it dirty. I nod, glancing back outside.

"Anyway, I should probably get back," I say after a while, finding the silence too awkward. "It was nice meeting you…?"

"Gilbert." I nod, giving him a smile of a sorts. "Hope to see you around, Birdie."

"O.K."

Giving him a wave, I leave the garage and make my way up the street. I let out a sigh, running a hand through my hair again. I've always liked (_loved_) sleeping, but I'm sort of glad that I skipped out on it tonight.


	2. Chapter 2

I've never particularly hated school. The way I see it, it's like a chore that just needs to be done. It isn't like it was always so bad, anyway. In the beginning, when I was about _this short _and in kindergarten, I really enjoyed it. It was so new to me, just being told I was going made me excited. I think that's how most kids start out though. We weren't groaning like we do now. This makes me feel a bit nostalgic.

I don't hate it. But I don't like it. I like going, simply for the fact that I can socialize without feeling pressured (you can't go on with your teachings if you don't have a pencil to borrow) and I actually have something to do. If I didn't go, I'd probably be in very bad health with an absurd amount of boredom. But I've never liked going either. Dragging my sorry, sleepy ass out of bed is a pain, and looking at the clock makes me cringe with hatred too. Personally, I'd make a few adjustments to the schedule, but I suppose life can't always go your way.

It's how I feel this morning. Hearing the alarm clock go off on my phone makes me upset, and I all of a sudden hate the ring down, and rush to get it to stop. I lie on the mattress for a bit longer. The walk back from the auto repair shop was long, yet somehow refreshing. The rest of my bad mood had eventually faded by the time I got back on my plain-looking porch. Now it all seemed like a bad idea. I could hardly will myself out of bed. It probably also had to do with staying up so late. I suffer from exhaustion when my sleeping schedule gets havocked. Yesterday wasn't any exception.

Finally getting out of bed, I sigh. Walking towards my closet, I pull out a tee shirt and jeans, hoping that they go together so I at least look decent. I probably just look tired, though - not even a well-put outfit could change that. I've never been big on looking fashionable anyway, so the attempt is fairly half-assed in my opinion. I glance around my room, running a hand through my hair. Even it looks half-assed. I don't know if this is how it's always been, or if I've only started acting like this now. I can't think about it, knowing that school is going to start soon.

So instead, I try to push every single stressful thought to the back of my mind and think about what I'm going to eat when I head downstairs in a quick manner (Mom's always yelling about it to me). As I walk through the hallway between the wall and the stairs, I hear unfamiliar voices resound in the living room, which is, incidentally, beside the kitchen. I feel slightly uncomfortable when I peer around the corner and quickly spot the detective working on my brother's case. I twist my lips, watching him speak to my parents in a way probably only detectives can speak. They don't notice me when I step into the kitchen, and so I take that I can make myself breakfast.

I pull out a cereal box from the pantry, a nameless brand, before preparing myself a bowl. It's only been a few days since Alfred's… you know - two days, really, since it's Monday, but it feels like it's been longer. I don't know why. It's sort of like time has slowed to a stop and everything happening right now isn't real. It feels like I'm sleepwalking. But I know that isn't it, and so I take out a spoon and sit down at the table. My parents have stopped speaking since I've entered, and I don't know how to feel about that. I don't know what they're thinking, or how they think I'm feeling, but I know we're somehow not on the same page.

I glance over my shoulder, pursing my lips as I turn back round and begin to eat. It's all tense, it is, and I wish, almost desperately, that it'd stop. I keep to myself as the interview between my parents and the man continue, and I don't know how that makes me look, but I know that it probably doesn't matter. I finish off my bowl in a matter of minutes, before leaving the kitchen hastily. I really couldn't take it anymore. I avoid going into the living room after that, going about my own business. Still stuck in my thoughts, I grab a sweater and my bag before heading out the door.

x

To be honest, the reason why most people ever recognized my existence at all was because I was Alfred F. Jones's little brother. This fact alone was what made me, Matthew Williams, exist to this school. I've never really cared for this, really. I'm not good with people, and even if people only recognized me as Al's little brother, or even him, sometimes, good could come out of it. (Lots of people were confused about our different last names, too. I'm Al's half brother, but neither of us ever really payed attention to this or cared.) I don't take things like this personally. It sort of makes sense to me. Al's always been a big outspoken, outgoing person, which of course means other people will be pulled towards him and his friendly, sometimes dopey personality (we got a Spanish exchange student this year that's the same way - he's a Senior). There were also the few kids that disliked him by a lot, though they didn't really go out of their way to make this known. Anyway, things like Al's murder get out quick.

Walking into the school building today was, quite frankly, weird and uncomfortable.

Most everyone's reaction was a stare of pity or sympathy. I don't think it was the fact that everyone felt that way for me - I think it was that everyone's attention was on me in general. Like I'd explode or something. And I was about to, with all their staring. Something in my head, though, told me to ignore it. They were just trying to be nice and watch out for me, even if only a handful of the crowd knew me personally.

I think I was most thankful for Juan, though. When he saw me, he gave me a once over before nodding to himself, and in his Cuban accent said, "We can go get ice cream later." That made me feel a little better about it all. We walked to first period together (we shared a history class together), and avoided speaking about it for a long time.

After that, the stares and sympathy was easier to accept and appreciate. Lots of people other than me liked Alfred. It was a given. Only Arthur was allowed to feel the same as I did, though - it looked like we were sharing the same feelings either way. We passed each other in the hallway once, and gave each other the mutual expression of, _"I understand. (It'll be O.K.)"_ I have to remember to call him later.

I guess everything else was normal other than that. A few teachers pulled me aside to bid their condolences before, and I thanked them with genuine feeling. Only one teacher asked me why I showed up to school. This was Mrs. Graham, who was one of the youngest teachers on staff. She had her dark, chocolate-brown hair pulled in a messy ponytail today. I even started to think about it myself - a break probably would've done me good. But I couldn't find a proper answer, and only shrugged with slight embarrassment. Instead, she gave me a soft smile and shook her head.

"It's fine, I understand. You can take a seat, if you'd like." And so I did. The rest of the day goes by quickly.

x

When we get inside of the ice cream shop, we're the only ones here. It's sort of inevitable, though - it's October. Only people like me and Juan do things like this. Speak over _ice cream. _I stare out the window as Juan comes back with our small cups of chocolate ice cream, spoons and napkins in hand. I thank him subtly, taking the styrofoam cup and a plastic spoon. As my friend settles in his seat, a moment of silent passes. It allows me a moment to get my thoughts together for an explanation I know is soon to come.

The silence lasts longer than I expect. I look at his' face, and I can see he's stuck in his own thoughts - probably trying to figure out how to word the right questions. When he speaks, I'm taken by surprise.

"How did he die, then?" he asks, and I'm sort of taken back. I twist my lips, glancing out the window. We're sitting at a table for two next to a wide one.

"He was shot last Friday," I reply, wording my own sentence carefully. It feels weird saying it out loud. I guess it makes it true. After a while, I add, "Did you know that the police call it 'gunned down?' I guess it makes it sound more, uh, tolerant." I don't appreciate the look he gives me.

"Not really," he sighs, looking at his cup as he slowly eats his ice cream. "You know, Matt, I know me and your brother didn't get along well, but I cared about him, too. He's your brother."

"Yeah, I know," I mumble. Suddenly, the conversation is making me upset.

"I know you're not feeling to well about it, and I understand," he says. I sort of expect a _"but..." _It never comes. "I don't think it's taken its full toll on you yet." I look up at him. Maybe that was his "but."

"Are you saying that there's more to come?" I ask, almost wistfully. I poke at my own ice cream. It's melting in its spot, slowly.

"Not necessarily. I just think you're feelings haven't caught up with your mentality yet - I don't know if that makes sense."

"Sort of. But not really," I sigh, finally taking a small bite of my cold treat. "I don't think that's it. I feel shitty. I guess I don't show it well enough to make it obvious."

"No. You're always obvious… I think I'm right."

"Maybe you are." There's another bout of silence before he speaks again.

"I don't mean to make you feel bad about it." He gives me a thoughtful expression. "I'm not good at comforting, really. I don't think anyone could be of great use in situations like this… Anyway, I think you should talk about it, once you're ready. You know? I know you like to keep this kind of thing to yourself, but really, that's no good. We both know that. So, just, tell me when you feel you should, O.K.?" I nod, glancing up at him.

"Thanks."

We continue eating our ice cream in silence from here on out.

x

Opening the window, I shiver at the feeling of cool air hitting my skin. I turn my back towards it, staring at my room once again. The only thing that's missing is Al, but I wave that away. The light has a somber look to it - its only source of light is the moon peering at the edge of my window, and even then, it's not very bright. I'd like to think that tonight, I'll be able to sleep soundly, with no troubles at all. But I've never had the privilege to rest well (all Alfred had ever done was talk until he fell asleep), and I don't think that privilege will come to me any time soon.

I cross the room, glancing at the clock. It reads eleven fifty-four. When I had gotten home, _Detective Oxenstierna _(a long name that I can't properly pronounce and learned from this morning's occurrence) had been long gone. I didn't feel all that comfortable, anyway, when I noticed that the house was empty. I looked all over the house, before I fully realized my mom wasn't home. It wasn't such a rare thing, but it did make me a bit disappointed. We didn't have to be in the same room - I just wanted to know she was there.

I pull out my pack of cigarettes from my drawer after a long moment of contemplation, moving near the window again as I light one between my teeth - I don't want the smell to linger much. My hands shake from the cold as I take a drag. It's a bit of a bummer, how cold it is.

I wonder how it is, that when people die, all you want to do is have a cigarette. I mean, it somehow ends up making sense, if you think about it for long enough. There're so many reasons - mainly, you can't get past your thoughts. Somehow, this past whole day, I've managed to rid myself of certain thoughts, but of course, for a guy like me, they can only hide during the day. At night, you have so much free time on your hands to worry. And that's exactly the kind of thing I do.

I don't let my smoke burn away in between my fingers like last night. I focus myself on taking long, deep drags, and try to think of why everything's so hard. Everything's impossible. Everything. All of it. _Life. Life is impossible. _My legs get tired of standing after a while, and so I have to shift so I can finish off the stupid cigarette.

Really, honestly, I just want to find a piece of mind on all of this. But I think we all know that's yet to come.

* * *

_I wrote this second chapter on a whim, but with an honest attempt once I realized exactly where I want this story to go. But after reading over this chapter, the writing looked half-assed and stiff. Despite this, I'm hoping that it's continuing to steer the story where I want it to go. I just wanted to apologize for that. I hope you enjoyed it either way!_


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